


How To Make A Functioning Alcoholic

by LittleLightLittleFire



Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anders does not deal with being a god well, Beer fixes everything, First Heartbreak, First Love, M/M, Socially awkward vampire, springFRE
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-06-03 02:36:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6593164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLightLittleFire/pseuds/LittleLightLittleFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally Beer O'Clock, submitted as a prompt for the Spring Fandom Raffle Exchange:<br/>Possible College AU) You always show up to our 8:30 immaculately dressed and your handwriting is so neat and you always have your shit together and today you look like you’ve been crying and you’re wearing a ratty old shirt and you’re not taking notes or participating at all and we’ve never talked but is everything alright?</p><p>This fic's secondary title should probably be 'Reasons Why Anders Is The Way He Is In The Almighty Johnsons'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beer O'Clock

Mitchell sat heavily in his seat, wobbling the rickety table and sloshing coffee over the pristine sheet of A4 in front of him. With his sleeve, he dabbed up the mess and cursed whichever genius had invented 8:30 lectures. And he thought vampires were sadistic. 

The rest of the class began to trickle slowly into the large lecture theatre, oversized for the number of students. Introduction to Classical Myth and Legend wasn't the _most_ popular blow-off class, probably due to the scheduling and the lecturer, whose droning voice could be used to cure hardcore insomniacs, but it was certainly up there. 

It did have its perks though. Firstly, Mitchell was secretly a massive geek for this sort of thing. As a creature of legend himself, he felt a certain affinity for the subject, so the work never really felt like work at all. 

The second perk came in the shape of the short, blonde guy who always sat one seat in front and to the left. He was the most put-together student Mitchell had ever seen; his shirts were always crisp and spotless, his shoes were cleaner than Mitchell's kitchen hob, and his neat, flowing handwriting was a work of art in itself. He also had dimples. Mitchell wanted to do unspeakable things to Dimples' dimples. But he was also _way_ out of Mitchell's league. So Mitchell was content to admire from afar. Or as one of his friends had referred to it, 'perv from behind'.

On this particular morning, Dimples was late. After half a semester, Mitchell had established that this _never_ happened. He was always on time, sitting in his seat and smirking _that_ smile; the one that made Mitchell want to combust or leap over the table and kiss him hard. Often both at the same time. 

8:31 and still no Dimples. Their lecturer started his monotone and Mitchell mentally shrugged, disappointed. He must be ill. 

8:36 and the door to the lecture hall burst open, making everyone jump. Dimples mumbled an apology and trudged up to his seat. Something was definitely not right. The poor guy looked a mess. His short hair stuck up at all angles and the bags under his eyes were almost the same colour as the crumpled navy blue t-shirt he wore. 

Dimples pulled his notebook from his bag, flipped it to a blank page and held his pen over it, poised to take notes, head supported by his hand. He stayed like that for the entire two hours, unmoving, staring at the empty paper.  

Mitchell was going to go out on a limb and say that Something Was Wrong. 

At 10:29, the lecturer finally stopped, and slammed the book he'd been reading from shut. The class jolted, startled out of their stupors. But not Mitchell; he'd been fidgeting in his seat for the best part of the lecture, _willing_ the clock to tick faster. 

He saw Dimples look up at the clock in alarm and then blinked, confused, at his empty paper. And it was only because he'd been paying a quite frankly creepy amount of attention that he spotted the solitary tear that spattered onto the page. 

As if remembering where he was, Dimples rubbed frantically at his eyes, shoved his things into his backpack and bolted for the door. Mitchell wasn't far behind him. 

"Hey! Hey, mate!"

Dimples span round furiously and snarled. " _What?_ "

Mitchell raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Whoa! Easy there, you'll have someone's eye out with that temper."

"What do you want?" huffed Dimples. 

"I- err - I sit behind you. In class, y'know?" He thumbed over his shoulder back the way they had come. Dimples raised one eyebrow archly. This was _so_ not going the way Mitchell had hoped. "And I noticed that you're...It seems like...Well, you don't seem like yourself today. And I just wanted to check if everything's alright?"

"Thanks. For your concern. Everything is not fucking ' _alright_ '. Everything is the exact opposite of fucking alright. I turned twenty-one a couple of days ago, and my world has spiralled into a complete and utter shit fest. 

"First, I find out that my fucking mother, who I had been told died in a fucking car accident, fucking abandoned me and my brothers to live in the fucking woods somewhere. Then I, myself, actively add to this crap pile by getting shitfaced and boning my brother's girl. And, of course, drunk me thinks that this spectacular decision can only be made more _awesome_ by doing it where I know he'll find us. 

"So now, I've been kicked out of my house, disowned by my big brother and forbidden to see my baby brothers _ever_ again. Everything I own is in the trunk of my car. Which got a parking ticket this morning. So no, everything is not fucking alright."

Waiting until the man's anger had ebbed, his breathing had calmed, and his fists had unclenched, Mitchell stuck out his hand in between them. 

"I'm Mitchell."

Tentatively, Dimples took it and shook it. "Anders."

Mitchell smiled happily. It was a start. "Buy you a beer?"

"It's ten thirty in the morning," Anders replied suspiciously. 

"I know."

"Nowhere will be open."

"I'll grab some tinnies from the shop. It's a nice day, we could sit outside?" Anders still frowned. "Look, you don't have to talk about anything you don't want to. I won't even be offended if you want to sit in silence. But either way, you look like someone in dire need of a pint."

Anders stared at his feet in thought. Mitchell began to shift uncomfortably, tugging on the hem of his flannel shirt. He'd been too pushy. This always happened. Age clearly had no bearing on being socially awkward, Mitchell felt like he'd been living proof of _that_ at least _three_ times this week, so hey, why not make it a fourth? 

After a few agonising seconds, Anders finally looked back up and gave Mitchell a small smile that made his heart stutter a little. 

"You know, I'd like that...I'd like that a lot."


	2. A Beer In The Hand Is Worth Two In The Bag

 

"I don't fucking get it," announced Anders one morning, after a particularly tedious lecture. "What the fuck do you want?"

"Hmm?" replied Mitchell, startled. 

It was the first thing Anders had said to him in weeks, other than 'hi', 'bye', and some variant on 'yes, I would like another beer thank you'. Anders hadn't wanted to talk since that initial outburst, and Mitchell hadn't wanted to pry further. They were just two blokes sat on a park bench, enjoying a quiet pint at 10:30 AM on a Tuesday. Perfectly normal. And in any case, Anders was an easy man to read. On his good days - becoming more frequent as the days lengthened and spring rolled in - Anders was happy to sit and watch the world go by, giving contented little sighs as he drank his beer. Mitchell would take sneaky, sidelong glances when Anders wasn't looking, enjoying the other's happiness. Whatever he had done, Anders deserved a little peace in his life. They both did. 

On his bad days, Anders oscillated between tensing with anger and deflating in on himself. He'd look rumpled and tired; not a patch on how bad he was on that first day, but close enough to worry Mitchell. Today was a tense, angry day. 

"I said 'What the fuck do you want?'" repeated Anders with unconcealed irritation. "Every fucking Tuesday, you turn up with a bag of beers and we come and sit out here in silence. We've been doing this for _weeks_. You can't honestly tell me this is fun for you. So what the fuck is it, hmm? You want me to write an essay for you? Or perhaps you just were hoping I'd be _so grateful_  for the attention that I'd take you round the back of the Science block and suck you off. We can go now if you'd like, then you can finish this fucking farce," he spat. Anders stared down into his can, hands balled into fists to stop them shaking in anger.

The accusations stung Mitchell deeply and he barely kept a handle on his infamous vampiric temper. Unleashing Big Bad John on the Auckland University campus would be _catastrophic_. He willed his anger to subside and tried to rationalise Anders' vitriol. Hurting and frightened, Anders was lashing out at the nearest thing which just happened to Mitchell today. Mitchell also detected no small amount of self-loathing; he knew what that looked like, he'd been on that merry-go-round before. The only person who'd successfully dragged Mitchell out of his decades-long pity party had been Josie. He smiled to himself in remembrance. Everyone needed a Josie.

He ran a hand through his hair, searching for the right thing to say, messing up his dark curls in the process. "Listen, mate... I'm not after _anything_."

"Bull _shit,"_ Anders interrupted. "Everyone's after something."

"I'm not everyone," snapped Mitchell. Anders' eyes widened a little in alarm. "I know you're going through some shit and you think that you _deserve_  every bad thing that happens to you because you fucked up. But you don't. No matter how bad you _think_  you are, I guarantee you're not. What you deserve is someone to be a...a... a mate," he finished lamely.

"And you think that someone could be you?" sneered Anders half-heartedly. 

"I'm trying to be. I'm not trying to pull one over on you, or manipulate you," Mitchell explained softly. "You seem like a nice guy who needs a friend. That's all."

"You can't know that. I could be the next Hitler or something," said Anders. He startled again at Mitchell's loud outburst of laughter.

"I highly doubt it, Anders. You fucked up, right?" Anders nodded sadly. 

" You feel bad about it?" Anders nodded again.

"Then that means you're not a bad person." They both stared at their own feet for a while, lost in thought. Then Mitchell eventually added, "You gonna make it right?"

"Oh, Mike made it perfectly clear that he never wanted to see me again."

"Give it time," said Mitchell. "He might come round."

Anders shrugged noncommittally. That topic was obviously still off limits to Mitchell. "So...how did _you_  fuck up?" he said, peering at Mitchell closely. Mitchell's eyes widened in surprise. "What? You're not as subtle as you think you are. So go on, what did you do?"

Mitchell floundered. Aside from his time with Josie and the temporary calm of the last couple of years, he'd spent six decades feeding and fucking his way across the European continent. "Would you like me to list them alphabetically  or chronologically?" he eventually replied, trying to conceal the truth behind dark humour. 

Anders snorted and smiled a little. Inwardly, Mitchell relaxed. It was a major misstep narrowly avoided. He wasn't sure if he even wanted to have _that_ conversation yet. But at least Anders was smiling. It was the first real one Mitchell had seen for over a month. He was going to count it as a win. 

"Alright, you be coy," said Anders with feigned injury, "but I _will_  find out."

Far across the other side of the campus, the clock tower dinged out the hour and Mitchell sat up abruptly. 

" _Shit!_ Is that the time? I've got a history lecture that I'm supposed to be at...they moved it last week and fucking forgot until just now. I gotta run," he babbled as he tried to extricate his long legs from under the picnic table. 

Anders' smile fell from his face and he mumbled something that Mitchell didn't quite catch. "Sorry, mate, what was that?"

"Stay and have another beer?" repeated Anders louder. 

"I can't, mate. I'm sorry. Hey, I'm at the King's Head over on Grafton most nights a week. Swing by and you can buy me a drink for a change, yeah? See ya 'round!" 

Mitchell threw a wave over at the scowling Anders and sprinted off to his next lecture, leaving the bag of tinnies with Anders. It wasn't until he'd finally settled himself and had regained his breath that he had chance to reflect on how that must've looked. Shit, he'd be lucky if Anders ever came near him again. No wonder his voice had sounded weird when he'd asked Mitchell to stay. He'd extended the hand of friendship though and all he could do was hope that Anders would take it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, these guys wouldn't leave me alone. Little bastards.


	3. In Vino Veritas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In vino veritas_ \- 'In wine, there is truth'

Anders loitered by the entrance to the King's Head, trying to collect himself. He was here for answers. That was it. Firstly, as to what the fuck Mitchell _wanted_  from him. And secondly, why the fuck didn't The Voice work, and the subsequent questions _that_  raised. His current guesses were god or weirdo. Given Mitchell was Irish and not very Norwegian-looking, Anders was going with weirdo rather than fellow god. Although, he'd given it some consideration, and if he'd had to guess, Anders would have gone with someone like Tyr... or maybe Freyr. 

In any case, curiosity had got him all the way up to the front door of the pub. Nervousness had him still outside in the pissing rain. Not only was Mitchell _nice_  (for reasons Anders was still suspicious of), but he was also hot, in a fuzzy, lanky, slumming it kind-of way. Anders might even have gone there, given the right circumstance, but then the World's Worst Twenty First had happened and he'd been thrown out on his ass and had suddenly developed an entire _panoply_  of Bigger Concerns. Like not starving. And not living out of his car. 

That had been several weeks ago. And now he was here, attempting to...find answers? Make _friends?_ Anders scoffed at himself and turned to leave. Mitchell was probably just being polite anyway, inviting him along. One of those things that people said but never actually meant.

Head down against the biting rain, Anders didn't see the body that barreled into him until the last second. The blistering stream of swear words he'd been about to unleash fizzled out. It was Mitchell. Shit. Fuck. _Shit._

_"_ Oh, it's you," said Mitchell and then gave him a blinding smile.

"You this clumsy naturally, or do you have to practice?" Anders groused. Mitchell's grin got wider.

"Come on," he said, putting a hand on Anders' arm, "let's get inside, it's bucketing it down out here." 

Even if Anders had to peel his feet of the carpets with every step he took, the pub was at least warm and dry. They made their way through the fugue of grey cigarette smoke towards the bar. 

"What can I get for you gents?" said the bartender. Both she and Mitchell looked at Anders expectantly. 

"Bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and two glasses please," Anders replied smoothly. He could already feel himself easing back into the swing of things again. 

The bartender barely batted an eyelid, but Mitchell raised his brows. 

"What?"

"Nothin'," Mitchell said none-to-innocently. "Just expected you to be more of a beer kind of guy."

"Beer is for Tuesday mornings," he replied breezely. "Wine is for good company," he added, dropping his voice lower and holding Mitchell's gaze a second longer than was necessary. 

Mitchell's mouth swung open. At that moment the bartender returned with the bottle and glasses. Anders gave her a cheeky wink as she handed over his change, and she blushed. _I'm back in business,_  thought Anders smugly. The brief moment of self-satisfaction died when he turned back to Mitchell and saw a dark scowl shadowing his face. 

As they made their way over to a table near one of the misted windows, Anders' mind raced. He'd misjudged the situation. Misjudged Mitchell. His one _good_  thing at the moment and he'd already fucked it up. In the midst of a rising sulk, he deposited the alcohol onto the table and dropped into his seat. _Fuck_. 

When Anders didn't make a move to open the wine, opting to stare at the table instead, Mitchell sighed and leaned over to grab them from under Anders' nose. He smelt like leather and tobacco and salt. Not unpleasant. Far from it. Bragi stirred, desperate to immortalise the scent in verse. Anders shoved the Bragi part of his brain back into its box. The motherfucker kept appearing at the most inconvenient points, usually when Anders was Feeling Things. Or when he was trying to get to sleep. Bastard.

"You don't have to be like that," muttered Mitchell as he poured out their drinks. 

"Like what?" Anders snapped back, hackles rising. 

"Y'know, all..." Mitchell waved his hand vaguely. " _Predatory._  Like you have something to prove. You don't."

"Don't talk to me like you _know_  me," spat Anders. "You don't know the first thing about me."

Mitchell ran a hand through his hair. " _Jaysus_ , Anders! Would you cut it with the attitude as well? I'm _trying_  to get to know you, that's why I asked you here. But I want to know _you_  you. Not some smarmy arsehole who likes to lay on the charm."

"How do you know I'm _not_  a smarmy arsehole?"

"Because..." Mitchell shrugged, searching for the words. "Because the smarm is a new development. And no one who likes _The Odyssey_  as much as you do can be _that_ bad."

"How did you know I liked _The Odyssey_?" asked Anders, stunned.

"Literally everything you own is _pristine_  - even your fucking handwriting looks like calligraphy - except that book. It's knackered."

He was right, of course. Anders had picked up a copy in the school library one lunchtime and had been hooked ever since. Something about Odysseus' ability to think (and talk) his way out of anything fate threw at him appealed to the bright, scrawny kid whose father favoured using his fists over his brain. Anders had spent a week washing cars in the height of summer to be able to buy that copy. To say it was well-loved was a understatement of mythic proportions. And Mitchell had picked up on that. Anders wasn't sure how he felt about this. He took a sip of his wine. Then another, larger one. Then he necked the glass. Mitchell raised his eyebrows again, looking concerned. 

"Drink up," Anders said, pouring himself another and snatching Mitchell's glass when it was empty. "So, you know my favourite book. What's yours?"

"Dunno. Not really that into reading. I mean, I will when I have to. I prefer films though."

"Alright then. What's your favourite?"

"You ever seen Laurel and Hardy?" replied Mitchell with a broad grin and a cheeky twinkle in his eyes. 

 

********

Two and a half bottles later and they'd been kicked out of the pub. It had been closing time in fairness. The bartender had wanted them to leave half an hour before they actually _had_ , but the rain had been bouncing off the pavement and they'd both chickened out. Mitchell had charmed her - far better than Bragi ever could've - into letting them stay until it eased off.

Anders wove gently down the street, clutching the half-finished bottle to his chest, listening to Mitchell ramble animatedly about Ireland (green, pubs, friendly, good food). Once that initial glass of wine had kicked in, and Mitchell had successfully embarrassed himself at least twice, Anders had felt much more comfortable. It also helped that Mitchell was an utter dork and completely lacking in any form of guile whatsoever. A dorky, guileless, over-friendly weirdo. Anders decided to like him.

They were halfway down the road when the downpour restarted with a vengeance. Mitchell pulled off his coat and held it above both their heads, providing a little shelter. 

"Where do you live?" Mitchell yelled above the noise.

"Near the bay. I'll need to get a taxi back."

"I'm just up there." Mitchell nodded to a block of flats in the distance. "You can use my phone to call one."

They jogged drunkenly over to the building. Once or twice, Anders made Mitchell stop so that he could take a swig out of his wine bottle. Finally, sodden and laughing, they collapsed against the main door.

Mitchell grinned down at Anders. Water droplets glistened in his dark hair and dripped down onto his cheeks. They were damp and cold, but he looked so effortlessly _happy._ And Anders _wanted_ that. So he kissed him. Hard. It took a moment and Mitchell kissed him back, threading his fingers through Anders' hair. Mitchell gently bit Anders' lip and that was the point where Anders lost all self-control. He wanted - no, he _needed_ more. Dropping everything, Anders wrapped his arms around Mitchell to pull him closer. 

Glass shattered and wine spilled over their feet. Startled, the pair sprang apart. 

"Jaysus, Anders! You scared the shit out of me!" breathed Mitchell. He bent down to pick up the shards of broken glass, chuckling to himself. 

But to Anders, the smash of the wine bottle had brought instant sobriety and he did the only thing he knew he was good at; he ran. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to be cynical and grumpy under the sheer force of Mitchell's cheerfulness. 
> 
> Finally managed to beat this chapter into submission. Hope you guys likey. Thanks for the comments and kudos and for reading!


	4. Whiskey and bruises

 After the pub and the kiss, Anders had bunked off the last two classes of the semester. Christmas came and went and still no sign. After the snowdrift of papers and deadlines, it was the Sunday before classes were due back and Mitchell felt a little bit hopeful. Swapping classes was a pretty extreme move to avoid an awkward date. But then so was bunking... He gave himself a mental shake. It was what it was; there was no point worrying about it. 

Mug of tea in hand, Mitchell collapsed onto the sofa and put his feet up. The only thing on telly was a Kiwi car chase film so he settled down to watch that for a little while. With no homework and no more assignments for the time being, he was just happy to have an evening of doing _nothing_. Warm and content, he soon drifted off. 

The hammering on the door had him start bolt upright. The film had finished and the TV was now blaring nothing but static fuzz. Groggy, he tripped over his mug and made his way over to the door. Of the all the people Mitchell had expected to see when he swung open the door, Anders was not one of them. 

"Anders, wha-  _Fuck..._ Mate, what _happened_ to you?!"

"Mike," he replied, wincing as he breathed. 

Mitchell silently stepped aside to let Anders in. He looked a _mess_. There were spatters of red down the front of Anders' ripped shirt, his lip was split as were his knuckles. From the way he was carrying himself, Mitchell guessed a broken rib or two. Mitchell breathed in sharply, instantly regretting it as the heady scent of blood hit his nostrils. He tensed, waiting for the vampire in him to stir. But there was nothing. Apparently his human instincts were stronger today.

" _Mike_  did this?!"

"Mmhmm," Anders gave a pained nod. "I tried to apologise, like you said. Didn't go as well as I'd hoped."

There was not a cup of tea in the world strong enough for this situation. This called for Ireland's cure-all: whiskey. Mitchell grabbed two glasses and a bottle and turned back to Anders. 

"Bathroom," Mitchell ordered. 

" _Why?_ "

"Because you're bleeding all over my carpet."

"So I am."

Anders peered down at the tiny red drops staining the beige rug and began to sway slightly. Mitchell caught him with one arm as his knees started to give way. 

"Not a fan of blood, huh?" he said as he half-guided, half-carried Anders to his bathroom. "Me neither. The smell makes me go a bit funny." Mitchell snorted at his own joke, lost on Anders, who was just concentrating on remaining upright. 

Trying not to jostle Anders, Mitchell managed to prop him on the closed toilet lid whilst he juggled the whiskey and grabbed the first aid kit from the top of the cupboard. 

"Shirt," said Mitchell. 

"Piss off."

Mitchell said nothing in reply, only scowled. Huffing, Anders eventually did as he was told and gingerly peeled it off, wincing in pain as the cotton brushed over his raw knuckles. Mitchell rewarded him with a measure and downed one himself to steel his nerves. The black marks already blossoming down Anders' side made him shiver with disgust. 

Being as gentle as he could, Mitchell examined Anders. 

"S'not broken that I can tell. Maybe a crack. Definitely bruising. And he got you in the kidneys, so you'll be pissing blood for a little while, I expect."

"Fuck," groaned Anders. "Do I not need a bandage or something?" he asked as Mitchell began work on his shredded knuckles. 

"All you can do is painkillers and rest. The next few weeks are going to royally suck for you, my friend."

" _Thanks,"_  Anders retorted.

Mitchell started work on Anders' knuckles, dabbing the cuts with antiseptic. The smell covered the scent of blood enough for him to ignore it. He was impressed with himself though. There had been times before when even the sight of it had...

"Where did you learn how to do this anyhow?"

"Hmm?" 

"This," repeated Anders trying to waft his hands around. Difficult, given that Mitchell had a firm grasp on his fingers. "The Florence Nightingale thing?"

"I was in the army."

"Huh. No way."

Mitchell heard the gentle _dunk_  of Anders' resting his head against the wall. He'd quietened, hopefully creating some kind of heroic back story that painted Mitchell in a better (and younger) light than his actual one. 

All of a sudden, Anders tensed. Mitchell looked up, apology on his lips and saw Anders staring down at him with alarm. 

"Mitchell, mate, why don't you have a reflection?" said Anders carefully. 

_Shit. The mirror._

"I can explain."

"You'd better," replied Anders. He drew his hands slowly out of Mitchell's grasp.

Mitchell saw Anders' eyes flick to the door, looking for an escape. Deliberately, Mitchell moved to one side and leaned his back against the bathtub, trying to make himself as non-threatening as possible. 

He took in a deep breath, and carefully watching Anders' face, he said, "I'm a vampire."

Anders' mouth snapped shut and he glared at Mitchell. Anders looked to the mirror again and then back at Mitchell. 

"You mean like turning-into-a-bat, blood-drinking, cape-wearing, Dracula vampire?" 

"No bats. No capes either. But yeah."

Anders thought for a minute, and then eventually said, "I _knew_  you were weird."

"You're not- you're not freaking out?" Mitchell stammered in shock. 

Anders shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm assuming that you're not going to eat me after spending all that time sticking plasters over my hands. And after the last six months, I've given up being surprised about anything anymore."

At Mitchell's confused frown, Anders chuckled a little. Then winced. 

"When I turned twenty-one," he explained, "I got told that I'm not just Anders. I'm Anders who is also the Norse god Bragi, god of poetry."

"Poetry? You?" said Mitchell incredulously. 

"Fuck you, Batfink," Anders snapped back.

Mitchell stared. Then burst out laughing, mostly out of relief. "Guess we've both got our secrets... It's nice to finally meet you, Anders who is also Bragi."

Rolling his eyes at Mitchell's slightly pompous tone, Anders reached for the whiskey bottle. He hissed as he tried to flex his fingers round the cap. Still grinning, Mitchell poured him another measure, placed the glass into one of Anders' hands and resumed bandaging the other. 

"So...What's it like...being a vampire?" Anders asked. "Hang on, you go out in sunlight, I've seen you."

"Don't believe the Hollywood crap. Being in the sun is uncomfortable for us, rather than killing us. Only a stake will do that."

"You drink blood though, right?" Anders wrinkled his nose up at the thought. 

"I used to. I don't do that any more. As for what it's like... mostly it's lonely."

"Aren't there others? Like you?"

"Other vampires are arseholes," replied Mitchell. "I try and stay well away from them. Hence New Zealand. No vampires here except me, as far as I know."

"Hmph. Being a god isn't as cool as it sounds either. So far, it's been pretty fucking shitty."

"Is Mike...?"

"Yeah. That dickweed is Ullr, god of the hunt. And my cousin Olaf - well, I _thought_ he was my cousin, turns out he's actually my grandfather, yeah, don't ask - is Baldr the reborn. Ty and Axel are still too young to have their godly powers yet... I hope they get someone good. Maybe we'll -" Anders stopped himself and shook his head. 

"All done," announced Mitchell as he tied the last knot. Anders stayed where he was, staring down into his glass with a small frown. "I think you should sleep here tonight."

Anders' head shot up and he gave Mitchell an odd look. "Not like that," panicked Mitchell. "I mean, not that I - You can - So I can keep an eye on you. With the ribs and everything. I'll sleep on the sofa, you can take my bed."

Flushing with embarrassment (in as much as vampires _can_  flush), Mitchell scrabbled to his feet and hurried to the bedroom to change the sheets. As he worked, he heard Anders slowly following, breathing in sharply with every step. Anders was in pain. A _lot_  of pain. The bolt of white-hot anger at the person responsible almost knocked Mitchell off his feet and he struggled to keep it under control. In another time, in another place, he would have hunted Mike and torn him limb from limb, god or not. They would have called him God Killer... Even Herrick wouldn't have dared to...

"Thank you."

Mitchell's fangs had retracted and his eyes had cleared when he turned back round to see Anders leaning against the door frame. 

"Why _did_ you come here?" he asked and it came out harsher than he'd meant. 

"You were - This was the first safe place I thought of," mumbled Anders.

Not trusting himself to say the right thing, Mitchell walked up to Anders and placed a kiss, feather-light, on his cheek, and then left. His back to Anders, he didn't catch the soft smile that Anders wore as he closed the bedroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all know how well Anders' apologies turn out...  
> Hope you guys enjoy!  
> Thanks for reading, kudosing and commenting


	5. Rocket Fuel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entry for the Winter Raffle 2017.   
> Prompt was "What the hell is in this coffee pot?"

Mitchell trudged his way up the stairs to Anders' new flat. After his run-in with Mike and a nasty bout of pneumonia from _still_  sleeping in his car (and stubbornly refusing Mitchell's offer of the sofa), by joint effort they'd eventually found somewhere Anders could afford to rent. It wasn't anything fancy, but it was clean and dry and, best of all, a three minute walk from Mitchell's place. This meant Mitchell got to keep an eye on Anders under the pretence of 'needing help to study'.

God only knows what Anders got out of the arrangement. 

Over the last week or so, Anders had gone into full-on dissertation panic, subsisting mainly on microwaved popcorn, coffee, and the occasional piece of fruit Mitchell had coaxed him into eating. The damn thing wasn't even due for another three weeks, but Mitchell just let Anders do his thing and tried to sneakily prevent him from getting scurvy. The dissertation was a trial everyone faced alone.  

Today's offering to the God of Poetry and Anxiety consisted of a bag of oranges (vitamin C), bananas (potassium), and some fish fingers (for that all important omega-3). Mitchell hummed tunelessly as he swung the bag to-and-fro and jumped, child-like, up the last set of steps. He was in a good mood; on a whim, he'd bought a saxophone. The old thing was a little battered but she still played like a dream, and he was looking forward to testing it out later. 

He raised his hand to knock on the door, and at the first tap, the door swung open. 

"Anders?" called Mitchell. A million possibilities, all of them unpleasant, rushed through his head. "Anders?" he called again with a little more urgency. 

"In here!" replied a voice from the direction of the kitchen. 

"You left the fecking door open..." Mitchell grumbled as he marched in. 

In the olfactory equivalent of walking into a glass door, an unpleasant and acrid combination of burnt sugar and coffee suddenly smacked Mitchell. " _Jaysis!_ What the _hell_  is that?"

Sat at the table in amongst a mound of papers and books, Anders shrugged and continued scribbling. 

It didn't take long for Mitchell to find the source of the offensive aroma. Coffee grounds were scattered along the worktop along with small piles of white powder that Mitchell _dearly_ hoped was sugar, leading a trail towards a small pot with a long handle sat on the hob. On closer inspection, it appeared to contain primordial, caffeinated, simmering ooze. Bits of it were starting to smoke slightly, which explained the smell.

"Anders... Anders. _Anders!"_  


"Mmm?"

Anders finally looked up. His eyes were as wide as saucers and Mitchell got the distinct feeling that Anders was not entirely inhabiting the same plane of existence that everyone else was. And now that his pen had stopped scratching, Mitchell could hear Anders' heartbeat. It did _not_ sound healthy. 

"What the _hell_ is in this coffee pot?!"

"Water. Coffee. Turkish, obviously. A metric fuckton of sugar. And caffeine pills," Anders listed off, barely intelligible. And then went back to writing. 

" _Why?"_  moaned Mitchell. Anders only paused to gesture at his books with the end of his pen. 

Great. Rocket fuel. He was going to be peeling Anders off the ceiling. Well at least it wasn't cocaine, Mitchell thought as he rubbed his face with his hand. With a resigned sigh, he started to put away the groceries. Then he hid the coffee on top of the cupboards where he knew Anders was too short to reach. If he asked, Mitchell'd blame it on the coffee gremlins or something. 

He grabbed Anders a large glass of water and put it down within his reach. Anders barely noticed. 

Mitchell sat on the sofa and settled down to wait out Anders' caffeine high.

 

Two and a half days later, Anders had completed his dissertation. He'd also not died, written up his masters thesis proposal, done four hours of aerobics, bought a fondue set from a 4 am infomercial (Mitchell had been napping at the time), and composed an anthology of profoundly deep poetry that, where legible, brought tears to Mitchell's eyes. The crash hadn't come soon enough, and now, finally, he was asleep on the sofa and cuddled up against Mitchell. Anders' heartbeat had returned to its steady pace and he was drooling slightly on Mitchell's shoulder. Mitchell planted a gentle kiss on golden waves and went back to watching TV. He had his own essays due, of course, but they were half done and the deadline was ages off. For now, they could wait. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheeky update for HTMAFA *and* a raffle entry.   
> Turkish coffee is basically rocket fuel. Luckily for my nervous system, it's also a total ball ache to make, so...  
> Thanks for reading, kudosing and commenting!


	6. Te Amo? More Like Tequila

Mitchell groaned as he came to. His mouth tasted like a dog had been camping in it, the sun was too bright even through closed eyes and he had a monumental headache. If he had to guess, Mitchell would say that he'd been out drinking within the last twenty four hours. The bed shifted and Mitchell's eyes snapped open. Anders lay next to him, illuminated by the soft sunlight that diffused through the curtains and indecently covered by the bedsheets. The whole scene put Mitchell in mind of a Renaissance painting. 

He was so caught up in savouring Anders like this - unworried, peaceful, _quiet_  - that it took him a solid while to realise he was naked. They both were. And the room smelt of the unmistakable musk of sex. 

Mitchell couldn't remember a thing about the night before and it sent him into a spiraling panic. If he had hurt Anders... the very idea made him feel sick. But there were no marks on Anders, no bruises or cuts and Mitchell couldn't smell any blood. It was a relief to know that the vampire had stayed slumbering, but it still left the more mundane questions of what the hell had happened last night. Except from drinking, that part was fairly self-evident. 

For lack of any better ideas, Mitchell started with what he could recall and worked back from there. 

It had been their last day of exams and the pair of them, along with the rest of the student population of Auckland, had decided to go out and blow off some steam. By getting shit-faced. 

The pub they had started in had been sedate enough. Mitchell had a couple of beers with his friends and they'd chatted about their plans for the break and for the future. Then they'd had a few more beers and that's when things had started to go fuzzy round the edges. 

Even without using Bragi, Anders could put anyone at ease when he had the inclination and, for a while, Mitchell had been content to sit and watch him talk with a mixture of pride and envy. Even at the grand old age of 103, it was an ability that still mystified and eluded him. 

More and more people had arrived and the group had got larger and progressively drunker and louder, to which Mitchell's laugh had been the main culprit. Then someone had suggested dancing. 

Sober Anders wouldn't be caught dead, but Drunk Anders? Drunk Anders had deemed this absolutely the Best Idea Ever. And where Drunk Anders went, Drunk Mitchell followed.

They stumbled their way to one of Auckland's few gay-friendly night clubs and Anders, high on post-exam euphoria and never wanting the party to end, spent all their taxi money on a bottle of tequila. After _that,_  Mitchell's memory fragmented, leaving only flickers and moments.

The press of bodies, packed in together, but Mitchell only registered Anders and the parts of him he could reach. Hips and hands and forehead connected. A kiss, slow and languid, all tongues and teeth and the tang of limes, that set Anders' heart beating hard enough for Mitchell to feel it along with the bass line. 

Anders under the flickering lights, sweat beading on his face and dancing with abandon. And that infernal smirk. The one that set Mitchell burning with a hunger, a need stronger than even the bloodlust. Anders knew the effect it had, of course he did. 

Mitchell took his gentle revenge by kissing Anders' neck, tasting salt and sweat and then chasing it down with a swig from their tequila bottle, giving Anders a smirk of his own. They'd left not long after that. 

Anders' flat and the press of many bodies became just one when Anders pinned him against the wall. They fell into bed, half-clothed and giggling, too drunk to stand up any longer.

He'd _had_  the intention of taking his time to take it slow and enjoy things, but Anders never gave him chance. Anders had pulled him apart, piece by piece, whispering to Mitchell the entire time. His words - all his own, no trace of Bragi - had left Mitchell spellbound and he wished he could remember them because even the shadow of them made his heart ache and his skin crave Anders' touch again. To be loved in such a way by someone like Anders... it felt like heresy. Especially given what Mitchell knew he had to offer in return. 

 

Mitchell looked across the bed to where Anders lay; even in his sleep, Anders still managed to look smug, although Mitchell wasn't really surprised by that. He looked and he _knew._

Anders grumbled and cracked open one eye.

"'Lo."

"Mornin'."

Sitting up on his elbows, Anders took in the clothes on the bedroom floor, the state that the pair of them were in and flopped down on the bed. 

"So," he said. 

"So," answered Mitchell. He watched with fascination as Anders adopted a cold, passive expression. Mitchell reached out to stroke Anders' cheek with the tip of his finger. "Hey, I'm not going _anywhere._  This doesn't mean..."

Anders scoffed and looked at the ceiling. Mitchell rolled over, positioning himself over Anders, leaving him no choice but to look at Mitchell. "I mean it, Anders. I've - I - I love you."

Anders' eyes widened like saucers and he gaped up at Mitchell. 

"I'm not expecting you to say it back... and it's ok if you don't - if you don't _want_  to," Mitchell eventually said after a few moments of Anders struggling for words. " But I just thought you should know."

Anders just stayed looking up, silent, with the same mildly terrified and confused expression. Mitchell waited. To be kicked out, laughed at or kissed, he wasn't sure which. 

"Say it again," croaked Anders. "Please."

"I love you," he repeated, kissing Anders gently. 

It broke the spell of Anders' stillness and he clung to Mitchell like a drowning man as he kissed him. This time, Mitchell got his way, slowly exploring Anders' body with his hands and his lips, trying to _show_  Anders how he felt. But for his gasping, Anders was uncharacteristically silent. 

Satiated, hot and sticky for the second time in less than a day, Anders pressed himself up against Mitchell's back and wrapped him in his arms. Without meaning to, they fell asleep again. 

The next time Mitchell woke, he was alone; Anders had gone. For a split second, Mitchell thought the worst until he heard the clatter of crockery in the kitchen and the sound of the kettle boiling. There was no doubt in Mitchell's mind now that Anders felt the same way he did, even if he hadn't said it. It didn't matter; he had _stayed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I'd try a little something different with this one ;)  
> Thanks for reading, kudosing and commenting. Hope you enjoyed!


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